


Why The Fuck Am I Called Tiger

by DidjaMissMe



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Flirting, Its Sebastian of course the language isn't great, M/M, Multi, No Archive Warnings Apply...Yet., Other Additional Tags to Be Added, RP!Blog, Smoking, Teen!Moran, Teen!Moriarty, mormor, teen!mormor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-13
Updated: 2015-03-31
Packaged: 2018-03-07 09:01:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3169139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DidjaMissMe/pseuds/DidjaMissMe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Run a blog," they said. "It will relieve aggression," they said. "Fuck you," I said. --Teen!Moran, in accompany to an rp!blog I run. Link in the notes.--</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blog? Like hell I will.

**Author's Note:**

> Blog: whythefuckamicalledtiger.tumblr.com  
> The blog above is Sebastian's blog throughout this story. Chapters will also be linked to that, so if you're following the story, I highly suggest following the blog. Suggestions, comments, and rps will also be visible and accepted through that blog  
> \- and yeah, thats an icky blog. And this is icky grammar - but it's for a reason. Visible character development, ya know?
> 
> Dedicated to Mikki :3

"You're angry. Angry and irrational and violent. This is your 5th strike - just this month!" She looked exhausted, tired, and done. I felt the same. "Obviously this isn't helping," she said with a sigh. "So, we'll take a new approach. Your homework is to set up a blog after this appointment. Studies have had a great deal of success reaching to their teenage audiences through this method. I want you to write about anything. What you ate for breakfast, what class was like, some of the thoughts you had today,"

For a therapist she sure spoke a lot.

"No." I pitched in.

She continued. "Writing these little things down can get a lot off your chest. You'll find that on your blog you can rant, and vent, and say whatever you want - then we can help. We'll monitor you, see what you say. I have a good feeling about this Sebastian."

"No." I tried again, to no success.

"Maybe we can reach a point past that anger, and see the positive emotions you ha-"

"I said, **_no!_** " I interrupted, stood up, and walked out.

Well, I say walked out... _-More like slammed her office door so fucking hard, I heard a satisfying shatter of a picture falling_.

Satisfying. There's a positive emotion for you, bitch.

I walked down the hall, past my father in the waiting room, and into the passenger seat of the car. I don't know how long I sat, fuming, till he opened up the drivers side a few minutes later.

"And how was the session today?" He asked, stupidly non-chalant.

"Abrupt," I replied, leaving it at that. He tried a few more times to start a conversation, but I don't remember that.

And frankly? I don’t give a fuck.

We pulled up to the ramshackle of a house, and I counted the door slams on my way to my room.

One - car door, hopefully broken.

Two - front door, right in Father's face.

Three - Bedroom door, accompanied by a click of my lock.

See, if I wrote this on that bloody blog, Therapist would be analyzing and deducing all sorts of symbolism shit from that. I don't need that. What I need is a strong drink, a long nap, and to not go to that new school tomorrow. School. Just the thought of it had me groaning and flopping on to my bed.

4 new schools in 2 years. Every one the same as the last. People splitting the halls, no one bothering me at lunch, alone in the back of every classroom... Is it better to be feared, or respected?

Is it too much to ask for both?

But that reputation comes with a reason. Tomorrow, the first kid who fucking lays a finger on me will have to be hospitalized, just to send a message. Or maybe I'll take the jock's girlfriend, mess around with him a little, then beat the shit out of him. Maybe I should start the morning off with a little graffiti-warning. Or serve someone up at lunch. Flip a table or two. Dissipate a club. Steal a band instrument. Set the Teachers Lounge on fire. Maybe I should do it all.

Except...I know we can't move around as easy as before. And this town only has so many high schools for a washed up junior. Another expelling and... No. Homeschooled is not an option.

So what if I took out the laptop? Logged into a blogging site? I'm not doing this for that stupidass therapist. Its not hurting my pride. I'm not going to turn into some good-doer charity man.

But, being the "Boss" is hard. And unexpectedly lonely. There's only so many times you can have people cower at your power till you start rethinking choices. And I already have. I think and think and think till my brain hurts, but realize there's no one there to care.

I am alone. _Alone_ is what I have.

Fuck it, she was right. This bloody blog is bringing out positive emotions. Is that what she wants to monitor? ~~_Well monitor this, bitch_~~.

Screw her. Screw them. Screw everyone.

Alone is what I have. But you know what? Alone protects me. I scramble in my desk for my pack, and take out a cig. I lean back in my chair and light it.

Alone _is_ what I have. Alone _protects_ me. And there's a damn good satisfaction comin' from that.


	2. School fucking sucks.

You know the perfect way to start off a new-school day?

A well rested morning, hot shower, home-made breakfast waiting for you, clean clothes set out, backpack packed the night before, birds chirping beside you as you walk to school - 

You know what I got?

I woke up late. I didn't shower. I skipped breakfast, and shoved some money in my pocket for a lunch. I grabbed the first tee I could find (probably dirty) …. (I sniffed it -  definitely dirty). I left my bag at home. It fucking rained on my way (would that count as my shower?).

Fuckin' perfect.

I got to school, late, irritated, and soaked from cloud-pee. Because I left my bag, I was forced to sit in the office chair, waiting for my fucking schedule to work its way to the top of their "priority list". 15 minutes late to 1 st  period - Great,  english . I mean, its obvious my grammar isn't  perfect,  but I know how to speak this.  Ain't  that enough?

And then there's the awkward burst into the classroom, where you have to interrupt the teacher, have the class watch you, and -not- apologize for said interruption. There was only one seat left, 2 rows back and 1 seat right, but like hell I was sitting smack-dab in the middle. I walked to the back, daring anyone to make eye contact. There was a spot by the window, last row, but taken.

"Hey you," I said, trying to get the attention to me, and off the worksheet, "2nd row back. Seat to the right. Teach' wants  ya  there."

He gave me a confused look, as if he didn't understand, but the look I gave b ack must have told him something, for he quickly grabbed his things and shuffled up the rows. I sat down, leaned back, and decided todays lesson wasn't worth listening to.

Well, that is, till the bell rang.

* * *

Halls are a bitch.

Swarms of people, all shoved up against each other, sharing air, pushing, shoving, not walking fast enough, not walking at all - a sea of heads and arms and hands that touch and  need to fucking move .

In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four. Repeat. Repeat. repeat, repeat...

Preferably sooner-rather-than-later, 2nd period started. I didn't know what class I walked into, just knew it was a relief to get out of that hall and into the room. I fought my way through the socializing crowd to the back, finding a similar spot as in English. Took a few deep breaths, and ignored the teacher's request to copy down those notes.

Fortunately, this is the last class till lunch. Unfortunately, this was the last class to lunch. The class seemed full, and being new, I didn't recognize anyone. Guess my 'I will kill each and everyone of you' glare doesn't seem to send the correct message. I'll have to do that during lunch. Naturally, I spent the next few minutes planning a way to do just that without a meeting with the officials, and well - 

Teacher didn't seem to appreciate that.

"Flip the worksheet over, Mr. Moran, and please, do try to follow along."

That's not the only thing I'll flip, you little shit.

* * *

Lunch was as to be expected. Loud, lots of kids, and smelled rightly awful. Due to my early morning, I didn't have a lunch, which only fueled my anger a teensy bit more. I sat down at one of the disgusting tables, propped my feet up, and crossed my arms. I searched for a suitable victim, till one dared to sit next to me, literally suited. Who the fuck even wears one to  school ? I ignored him.

"Only your fourth transfer? Try seventh." His accent got to me. Irish.

"Seven? What the fuck did you do, blow up a gym?" No, I wasn't continuing the small talk. Maybe. What was the harm if I was? I was still going to punch the little shit anyways. 

Okay yeah, I was. Probably shouldn't. So I didn't. He opened up his mouth to speak again, when I brought my feet down, cocked my arm back, and let loose.

it was nicely placed punch, right into his face, perfect for leaving a black eye. His head snapped back, and I smiled. I thought that did it, based on his smaller size he wasn't going to be much of one to fight back and lead to a full-fledged  bea -

_ Holy fuck. _

~~_ Fucking shit. _ ~~

**_ That bloody fucking bastard just stabbed me. _ **

There was a plastic -  plastic pierced denim?!  \- fork in my leg, and slowly blood pooling around it. I stood up, snapped the fork, and threw it on the ground. He stood too, bloody smirking all devilishly and yet looking all innocent and how dare he and what the fuck how the hell- I saw red, and felt restraint holding me back from beating this bitch into a pulp.

_ Lucky him. _

* * *

Next thing I knew, we were sitting in an empty principals office, him holding an ice pack to his face, me with a wrap to my leg. You could feel the tension, throbbing in time with my pulsating, still bleeding, cause he bloody stabbed me, leg.

"Only once." He said, non  chalant , breaking the tense silence.

"Excuse me?" I was confused.

"You asked if I blew up a gymnasium. I'm answering, saying it was a one-time occurrence."

The silence came back, but it was different. Relaxed, patient - not like waiting for a rubber band to snap back and hit you in the face.

"We could do it at this one. Plan it around an assembly. Issue a bomb threat, watch people freak the fuck out."

I sensed his approval before I heard it. "I like the way you think. Love it in fact. Except there's this teensy problem-" He didn't get to finish, for that’s when Mr. Principal-Fat-Ass decided to show up. We made eye contact, and a silent agreement passed between us.  Silent treatment.  Arms crossed, lips sealed.

* * *

He talked to us together, then sent Irish Boy off to talk to me alone.

He rattled off about school pride, and new kids, and my transcripts, something bout counseling, a problem with the Holmes boy,  etc  etc. I tuned him out, and flipped him off on my way out. Irish boy was sitting outside in a rather uncomfortable-looking chair. No words were exchanged as he stood up, buttoned his jacket, and strode right on into his office. 

I don't know why - okay maybe I do, but wont admit it - but I stayed. I replaced  Irishboy's  place in his seat, and fiddled with my pack of cigs in my pocket. I felt... wierd . Anxious. Not the same anxiety I'm used to, but more sick. It twisted my insides, made me feel hot, and I found myself rapidly bouncing my leg up and down. Trying to still it, all I wanted to do was to take a long drag from the cigarette I've been twirling around in my pocket. I don't know why, but I felt so...childish, and  kinda  soft? I stood up, and walked out of the main office. I leaned against the wall, waiting.

I didn't wait long till Irish Boy came out into the hallway, looking even more relaxed if anything. He started off down the hall. 

"Hey," I stopped him. "We aren't finished." 

He turned around, and I realized how close we were. Awkwardly close, but without the awkward. Usually by now, I would have either punched whoever the hell dared to get up in my space, or freaked out right in front of them by the proximity. Instead, there was … nothing wrong.

"Oh?" He asked.

"'Except there's this teensy little problem...'" I quoted him to remind him. 

"There's no fun in doing something predictable. And not forgetting to mention my constant surveillance by these," He  guestured  with his hand to the office. I kept my eyes fixed on him, "boring pigs."  I didn't think it was possible, but he got closer. We were sharing more than space, sharing breath, and started to go  past  uncomfortable. I started to feel my breath speed up, finally feeling the edge of panic, and held it all together. It was a test, I just somehow knew it. He was pushing my limits, and I was too stubborn to move. We held that position, silently challenging, till he stepped back with a knowing look. "But I'm definitely interested in doing something with you." 

I released my breath. "'Doing something' opens up a lot of possibilities..."

"It does, doesn't it? I look forward to meeting you sometime, Sebastian." He winked -  he fucking winked -  turned in place and walked off.

I stood there, dumbfounded, for far too long. It seemed a waste to go to class - it always seems a waste - so I turned the opposite direction, and headed home.

I didn't even catch his name.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More and more late night blogging... Screw the therapist - its a personal blog for a reason, right?

_The following excerpts a private post made on a personal blog by S. Moran. It follows:_

 

It's getting boring again.

That's how it was like at the other schools, too. New, exciting - for about 15 minutes. Then it gets boring. Starts going downhill. More and more the same. More and more trips to the principals office, or the nurses. More and more warnings, more and more lectures about "decency" and "morals" and "humanity". Give it more time, and I'll be at another school.

Wait- no, not this time. One more strike, and its going to be "highly suggested" home school. And looking at my father's current level of education, I most likely will be sent to live with my mum. And her replacement of Father.

I don't know if theres much more of that situation I can take.

There's only one "more" I would like right now, and that's him. He's weird, that’s for sure. A cocky son of a bitch. But its...interesting.

He's the one I've been talking to mostly on my blog - screw the therapy. Him and a few others at the school. It's a nice distraction, and I've found myself logging on to that horrid blue hell more and more.

More and more. Yeah, that sums him up pretty perfectly.

I only figured out who my fellow blogger is when he posted "Don't you love it when people just punch you in the face?"

Well, don't you just love it when bloody fucking psychos stab you in the leg? Typing out the replys, and the arguments, and warnings to the other bloggers reminded me - pill time.

I opened up the right drawer of my desk, pushed aside my carton of cigs, to find the odd orange bottle, with the small white pills. More painkillers come with more pain, and with that comes more of an addiction. More and more and more. Popped a pill, and lit a cig.

Yeah, addicted all right.

You know, some rehab likes to replace your addiction, with one less harmful. I sucked in a drag, and could have laughed at the irony in my thoughts. They get you on nicotine patches, or that god-awful gum, slowly cut down your take, hell - they would hand you a package of peppermint sticks to chow down on instead of sucking smoke. They would cut you off, less and less. I don't like that.

I like the "more and more". You start off simple, with an interest. Then you try it once, and it sucks. But you need to know if it always sucks. So you get another. And another. It builds up, you need more, and more. It’s a control, a choice, to grab another hit of whatever-you-may-be addicted to.

I think that's whats happening.

He's an interest. I need to know. I don't care what stage I might be in by the end, or what rehab facility might be whipped up for me to get whipped into - cause that's what I am. fucking whipped. I just... more. More of his mystery, more of the distraction from school, more of his adorable  Irish accent, more of his cocky suggestions, more of forks in my leg and dark looks in my general direction, more of him. Just, more.

Fucking dammit, I'm getting more like a wanton school girl by the moment.

And well, will you look at that? More.

More more.

That's it. It's 4 fucking am. Im going to bed


	4. All Good Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I've been thinking about you..."
> 
> "All good things, I hope?"

Yeah, last night was a mistake.

I'm running on two hours of sleep, and literally running to school. And, look, its raining. Again. I really can't wait for school to end today. Then again, I figure, who says it can't end before it begins?

 **Option 1:** Survive today by ditching, and most likely get kicked out of the school before next week.

 **Option 2:** Go to class, then take a 45 min "bathroom break" in the middle of it.

I've always liked even numbers.

* * *

1st period: Teacher didn't approve of me "interrupting her class for something so insignificant". Either she's an ignorant bitch, or caught onto my plans.

Luckily, I forgot my book for 2nd period, and got a hall pass to go to the "library" - and if I stopped and snuck up to the roof to catch a smoke break, well, I can just say I got lost. Besides, the rain left behind some sort of surreal shit, and it felt nice to be alone.

Or so I thought.

"I've been thinking about you..." His accent startled me, and I choked and sputtered. _Smooth, Moran._

"All good things I hope?" I turned around, and saw him leaning against the door, now shut - only opens from the inside, so now locked too. Great.

"Oh yes. Not to worry," He stood up, and slowly walked over, obviously taking his time. It was a good tactic too: The slow movement, the slow speech, it kept me hooked, listening and watching and waiting for what will come next from Him. "I'm simply trying to understand you. What makes you who you are... what makes you different." He was only a few steps away, hands in pockets, suit buttoned, ever such an interest. I raised my hand, and pulled the cig out of my mouth. I could feel the disgust coming off him, but it was only visible in the way he eyed the smoke.

"Ya know, normal people would just ask."

"That's no fun." I swear, he whined like a fuckin child. "Everyone lies. And sometimes people hide things. Even from themselves."

What the fuck did that mean? Was this another challenge? Is he sizing me up again? I returned his stare, looking straight into the dead-from-boredom eyes, refusing to fall.

"I don't hide." _And I won't._ "Especially not from you." ~~_Lying is a whole other story._~~

He looked down to hide a smile - one that, I had a feeling, didn't carry much joy with it. He scuffed his toes against the wet concrete, looking oh-so-innocent. "Especially not from me. You couldn't hide even if you wanted to."

I swear, he changes from cuddly-kitten to fearsome-claws in a blink.

"Do you know why I'm here, in the insufferable cold, wasting my time talking to you?" Yeah. Cat's definitely got the claws out right now.

"Cause math is boring as all hell, but I'm cute?" I have the strangest feeling my last words will be sarcastic.

His look was pure gold: _72% Im so done with your shit, 28% you fucking imbecile._  

"Be _cause_ ," He continued, "I'm here to offer you a proposition." Suddenly, he took on the aura of a demeaning boss, somehow looking down his nose at me, even though I'm far taller. "And I highly suggest you take it, if you value survival."

This kid was what? 16? 17? And here he was, threatening. Like hell _he_ valued survival.

"To survive this school I mean," He shrugged his shoulders, the childish kitten back into play. "But, I suppose, leaving this school would lead you back to Mommy's, and then it _truly_ would be a battle for survival, yeah? Tsk tsk... Poor Sebastian."

What. The. Hell.

Okay, so he knew a few things. Just a lucky guess, right?

He looked me straight in the eye, unwavering.

...I don't think it was purely luck.

"And if I don't accept?"

"I know you Sebastian, and I know you will."

"Cocky son of a bitch." I muttered, under a breath of smoke.

"Oh, you have _no~_ idea." I smirked.

He turned on his heel, starting to leave. Idiot. Idiot who locked the door, by shutting us out here.

Oh, but - of course. He has a bloody key.

How he got it, I wouldn't know, and frankly won't ask.

"Hey, wait!" I called, causing him to pause in his movements. He turned his head. "All this flirting and I don't even get a name?"

"Oh", he practically cooed, "You're going to have to work harder than that Tiger."

And he was gone.

Again, I found myself alone on the roof, except this time, locked out. Great. The solitude didn't seem as nice anymore, and I felt more willing to sit through class, than to sit out here with my thoughts. The roof was high up off the ground, my cigarette burnt out, and everything was eerily quiet. With a growl I dropped the cig, and ground it against my heel. It clicked against something, and I saw he had dropped the key.

On purpose?

Most likely. Clever little devil.I smiled, and tried to remember when he had dropped it.

My smile fell when I couldn't. But wait - Why the _fuck_ am I called Tiger?


	5. Hunt in Math

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that's a name...

Math class was probably the most bullshitted bullshit I've ever b-s-ed.

I know my multiplication tables, and how to download a calculator to every phone I'll ever own. so why, in the history of ever, did someone decide to teach a group of moody teenagers quadratic equations?

"I'll never know, mate. O only hope the final doesn't cover this." I didn't realize I voiced my question till the guy front of me turned to answer. I tried to think of his name.

"Greg, right?" I ask.

"Yeah. Greg Lestrade. And you?"

"Moran." I replied. His smile faltered, and he turned back around to focus on notes. Speaking of notes... Dammit this website really is taking over my life. And yet, that doesn't mean I won’t check any recent activity on my tumblr blog. Then again, that's also what I said last night - and the next thing that I knew it was 4 fucking a.m. Boy, did I regret that. Looking back at my blog, I really felt that regret. I mean, did I seriously reblog a tiger licking a tree? I continued scrolling, regret and anxiety building with every swipe, till I thrust my head down to my desk with a groan. Fuck you, Moran. You bloody idiot.

"Oi. You okay?" Greg had turned back around, checking up - or just procrastinating the horrid homework.

"This fuckin site." I mumbled into the desk, showing him the notorious blue on my phone screen.

He laughed a bit, with a "Yeah, I know the feeling. My teammate and friend, John, got me addicted. Who knew?"

"I did." I raised my head, only to look back down at my phone. "I did, and still signed up for this hell." He fell silent, and I didn't like that. I didn't want silence, cause that led to thoughts, which led to Him, which was definitely not needed in a public environment. "You know, your URLS spells out as 'gregle strade', right?"

"hmm?" He seemed to contemplate it, till a smile broke through. "Yah, I guess it does. That'd be an odd name, wouldn't it?" for a high scholar, Greg was way too polite at doing this whole 'casual conversation' thing. It fucking bothers me. But then I got thinking - polite answers questions, and its rude to keep a secret. And, these sort of people are the easiest to get answers out of - I wouldn't even have to pull out some charm on him.

"Yeah. Name. Hey, you follow boredjim, right?" His eyes rolled, and he suddenly took on a teasing-older-brother personal. I had a feeling he knew more than he was letting on.

"You could say that."

"Do you perhaps know his real name?" Apparently, this was funny based on the sound Greg made.

"You - You don't?" He was definitely holding back his reactions. Yeah, he really fucking bothers me. I gave hinnm a look, which spurred some answers from him, and shut up his humor. "Jim. Obviously. Jim Moriarty."

_Jim Moriarty_

Now _that's_ a name.

Looks like the "tiger" got his first to hunt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorty, I know. But monster chap will be posted tomorrow.


	6. Dismissed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sebastian," I hated being called that name, especially by the degrading teacher, or snide peer.I prefer Moran. She should know this. "Take your things. You are dismissed." But, when she's offering me the white slip of get-out-of-here-youre-free, I don't mind it as much.

The name was a mistake.

It was the only thing on my mind, repeating itself like a mantra I had to memorize lest it be thrown out with all the rubbish I didn't remember from math class.

_Jim Moriarty._

It definitely grabbed attention. It fit the mental image of him perfectly, neither a connotation or denotation, just. Him. It was one of those words that fit on the tongue, wasn't awkward, wasn't a stutter to get out - but still brought wary feelings to dare to say out loud. As if, If I say the name in front of a mirror 3 times at the witching hour... Well, that'd be one way to find him to talk to him. But instead, I'm stuck here in class.

Silent work time sucks. Not that I would like to have the oh so wonderful opportunity to socialize with these nerds (sarcasm, by the way), but the silence is deafening. I hate being able to hear a pen drop, or a student sniffle, or hearing the scratch of pencils against paper. It rubs me the wrong way. In silence you can hear anything and everything - which is sometimes helpful, to hear footsteps behind you or a tap on a window or a creak of a door, to use your senses to prepare and stimulate and worry. But other times, its just the worry. You don't want to hear, cause yo _u don't want to accept that someone is approaching with good or bad intentions and you'd rather be caught offguard and deal with the consequences than be left to hum out your paranoia in a dark closet hoping the door just stays shut_ -

Not the time, nor the place. Get ahold of yourself, Moran. _Breathe. 2, 3, 4. Out, 2, 3, 4. Repeat, 2, 3, 4. Out, 2, 3, 4._

I don’t know how long I sat there, pencil posied and eyes closed, but I openeed them in time to watch the door slowly open. A shy office assistant slipped in to hand the teacher the common white slip: a "Call down". Usually for parents picking up kids for appointments, or a necessary discussion with the authorities down at the office.

"Sebastian," I hated being called that name, especially by the degrading teacher, or snide peer.I prefer Moran. She should know this. "Take your things. You are dismissed." But, when she's offering me the white slip of get-out-of-here-youre-free, I don't mind it as much.

Talk about easy escape. Perfect.

Out in the hall, I inspected the paper for the reason why, or where to go. There wasn't much exact a time stamp, the word DISMISSAL across the top, and the sloppy initials signed in blue pen by a higher-up.

Well then. If someone truly needed me at a specific place, they would have given me specific details. For now, I'm out of here.

 

There's this one part in the maze of a school, in which the halls intersect like an _ **H**_. Actually, there's quite a few of these. I just can't remember where they are. It's force of habit to look down the intraversal, to check and see just out of curiosity. But today, I wasn't alone in the habitual look-see.

I stopped and turned my head, to see Jim Moriarty across the hall, doing the same.His hands in pant pockets, his chin turned up, his demeanor drawing attention and power. It was a different person than whom I met before. Suddenly, his name didn't fit anymore, at least, not all of it. The calculating glare that stared down, across a hall, that demanded silence wasn't any Jim.

In that moment, I met Moriarty.

The silence didn't require to be broken, but our hold did. We stepped and continued walking down opposing parallel halls. I pushed my way the doors, and didn't check to see if Moriarty was following suit on his side. I didn't look back as I entered the parking lot, and didn't see if he was following me to my car. I didn't need to. I knew he would be. It wasn't a normal cliché creeping feeling, having someone such as him silently following. I mean, there was a definite danger aura around him - but it wasn't a negative feeling to me. I don't know, it's hard to explain. But, I wasn't afraid. Excited, anxious, maybe. Nerves tickling with anticipation of what, and where, and why, and why with him, and -

"The least you could do is unlock the door." I looked up this time, and there he was, standing on the passenger side, waiting. My keys were still in my hand, and I didn't realize I closed my fist around them - a makeshift weapon. I guess I did feel the danger. But I kinda liked that thrill.

"And let a complete stranger into my car? My mom warned me about this...." I teased. Definitely dangerous, if his glare was to tell me anything.

"If I know you well enough to know your mother never has, and never will, do such a thing, it's not considered 'being strangers'. Now open. The bloody door." I obeyed.

The next thing I knew, we were driving out of the school lot in a tense silence. I glanced over to a stoick statue, sitting with perfect posture and crossed arms.

"Seatbelt." I grumbled. He shot me a look of pure defiance. It was probably meant to strike the fear of a lion roaring in your face, but reminded me more of a disgruntled kitten. Not that I'd say that outloud of course.

"Seatbelt." I said once more, louder and demanding. He faced himself forward and turned away, like a child. I smirked, and tapped the brakes not-so-gracefully. He fell forward as the car screeched, face of shock and arms out to brace him.

After a -slight- collision with the dashboard, I didn't need to repeat myself. Instead, turning up the radio to inwardly laugh. I kept driving, as miles passed with the minutes, music acting as the dam barring the obvious aggression in the air. It was calming, not caring what came on the waves, just using it to muffle thoughts and 'forget the bullshit in life' kind of thing. My reverie was broken by static, and I found him focusing the radio dial to a classical station. Not classic rock, but orchestral pieces and concertos and a soft voice announcing the next song to play. Despite my rule of 'My car, my music', I let it stay.

"Do we have a destination?" I asked, when the tension seemed to dissipate, and Moriarty seemed to relax back to Jim.

"Keep driving," is when I realized it wasn't quite 'Jim' yet.

It took another 10 minutes for him to start giving directions, starting with a "Left here," and a sudden swerve to obey. Another 10, and the car rumbled to a stop in a small desolate café, themed to the decades.

"Here?" I questioned. My answer was an unbuckling of my seatbelt, and Jim getting out of the car, not waiting for me. I jogged to catch up with him, and followed as he seated himself in a booth in the back corner. I sat across from him, my back to the entirety of the diner.

He leaned back with a cold calculating stare that I found hard to meet. It reminded me of the first day we met, in front of the office - except it was more than a silent and stubborn challenge, it was more of a judgement from above. It was different, and weird, and I didn't like it. I didn't like scrutiny, and I didn't like the intensity of his.

I looked down. I looked up. I looked back down and found myself obnoxiously and anxiously tapping an incessant rhythm with my thumbs. I stopped and _breathed 2, 3, 4. Out, 2, 3, 4_. I met his eyes firmly then. He noticed. The coal eyes squinted at my change, and his expression softened. I say "softened", but without the connotation. He stopped looking down his nose at me, and the wickedest of smiles flittered by - one of excitement that can only precede danger. I say softened, because he changed from the stone stature to a psychotic persona.

" _Oh_ ," He drawled, "We are going to have such fun." I opened my mouth to ask, and got interrupted by the cliché waitress. High ponytail, fake boobs, and all.

"What can I start you boys out with?" She smiled down at me, pen poised over paper pad. I smiled back, exercising a long-since-perfected, ass-kissing, wooing charm.

"Just some waters for now, please." I said sickeningly sweet, grateful to see her leave with a bounce in her step. I turned back to see the calculating stare still in focus on me. The smile faltered a bit as confusion made itself visible on my face.

"You know, I prefer to know who exactly I am taking on a date before they jump into my car..." Once more, it was me who broke the holding gaze.

"It's 'whom', Moran. And I already told you - You are going to have to be a bit more ingenious than that." There's that accent I was waiting for. Except even his voice was different. Less lilt, more heavy and drawn and business-like.

"James Moriarty, I'm Sebastian Moran. Pleasure." I held out my hand across the table, and took pleasure in the surprised pride in his expression. I liked that look. A lot. It was definitely a good difference than the looks-could-kill glare he has. It took a moment, till he accepted the shake.

"Jim Moriarty. Hi~." The lilt was back, even more so sing-song and sarcastic. His hand fell back and crossed his chest, back to the business. "and how?"

He didn't need to finish the question, as the waitress (Amy her nametag read) deposited our drinks off with a wink (returned of course). I stirred the straw around the glass and shrugged. "I get around."

"Oh how dull," He emphasized, "I expected more from you Sebastian, I really did." The quiet pride was gone, and the disappointment that replaced it was, well, disappointing. My face fell neutral, matching his.

"What did you expect? Me to ransack the files like you did? I highly doubt anything of interest would be kept in yours anyway."

"You never know what counselor's notes you might find. Don't forget, your appointment this Thursday changed times." He smirked, I clenched. "Not to mention, those offices are pain-staking easy to ransack."

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. You know me. I know you didn't drag me down here for some easy conversation, so get to the fucking point."

"Put the claws away, Tiger. I hardly dragged you here. You have the keys. It was your own volition." He bent down to take a sip from the straw, looking ironically childlike. It was bloody annoying. I stared him down, fuming. _In, 2, 3, 4. Out, 2, 3, 4_. Eyes shut, eyes opened, and I relaxed.

"There he is." It wasn't the fun teasing anymore. It was degrading, and bullying, and biting and all coming from him.

"There _whom_ is?" I teased.

He brought a hand to his head, as if to block the stupidity. "No. In the context of a sentence such as that, the- Oh, you know, you bloody idiot. I'm not here to teach you how to speak your own tongue."

"Then why are you here?" My face felt tight, and I bit back the anger. Something about his utter annoyance radiated dissaproval, which I reflected tenfold. I couldn't break the tension - and if there was ever something as tight as the air surrounding, I would preferably use it as a noose necktie to adorn the fucking suit in front of me.

"I told you before. I have a job for you, and you have no choice on your acceptance." Looking at him, I asked myself how it was possible for any human to look so damn relaxed in such a setting.

"And what makes you so sure I will?"

He stared me down.

"You will."

He was ...right. I don't know why, or how, but he was right. I would. I guess I showed that in my body language, for he continued without needing confirmation. Either that, or he was as much of a smug bastard as he seemed, and didn't care for confirmation.

"You are my bodyguard now. From here on out your eternal mission is to protect me, and if I die, find out who the murderer is and kill them and their entire family."

I almost choked. "I'm not sorry," I sputtered, "Are you not in a fuckin public high school?"

"I said, 'from here on out'. I have big plans Moran, and you're getting involved."

Now, I'm not one to surrender easily. I've learned the importance of power, and ways to obtain it and keep it. I know the thrill of being alpha, and even experienced holding the power of anothers life in my hands. But something clicked with his view on the future and demand.

For a guy whose not afraid to leave blood behind him in his claw to the top, I knew I could stay in second to James Moriarty. I held out my hand to close the deal, with a "Whatever you say, Boss."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blog: whythefuckamicalledtiger.tumblr.com
> 
> Seriously. How creative.
> 
> This chapter didn't come out quite as I would like to have it, but eh. Figured you waited long enough.


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